on the 'hand' outs

“On the (hand) outs”
(The {i(d}e)s of won’ts)

They may not believe in divine prov{i(d}e)nce
But may as well live in a little floating Canadian paradise.
Mind us thick with syrupy coagulants.
A basically blissful prancing pride of may pole parasites.

Grounded to the roles they play like veterans
Memories repressed from years of fictional violence.
The dream war’s over but for the reenactments.
Harms way is only to properly plant false ev{i(d}e)nce.
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Like when the gray juices start to spurt and spray
When the signals get cross
And crackle and pop the synapses away.
When it all comes loose
When it’s too unstable to defuse
When there is no use
And only I’d of won’ts for rules.

The I’d of won’ts are coming so don’t
Expect anything from anyone
In return for anything that you’ve ever done.

I’d’ve won’t speak ill of their lot,
But they’ve taken it to brew day
After day with no regard for the hops
Or any act of kin greedy senseis.

The dream war is over
So the post drama addict
Sinned Rome’s relics sober
And hung over they sleep through the worst of it.
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Some more may well believe in divine prov(i{d)e}nce
And may as well live in one of our war-on-terror-torn targets.
Wishing well with no favors for the penniless.
Ministry of perished-innards padding the plumpest of plummets.

Well-meaning class-soldiers in their chronic fatigues
Court the futures within reach letting the past settle in silence.
Though heated in battle I but disagree by degrees.
More good than harm only lasts ‘til you opt tomb-ism for all ev(i{d)e}nce.

Some seven-hundred billion times over
When the lines are all cross
And can’t be walked upon straight even sober.
When it whirls around
When there’s no calming ups or downs
When the only sound’s
I’d of won’ts swirling aground.

Beware the I’d of won’ts outstretched hand
‘Cos give and take’s equal but separate
On a limb or faking a limp we all seem desperate.

I’d’ve won’t clung to my vacant lot
But now comes the long awaited d-day
And instead of drop and cover we finally hop
To the aid of in-wrap-sured up deed senseis’ ties

Though heated in battle
Anger and sadness turn me cold
When all we can do is huddle
Up to what’s muddled over and several times over sold.